


Partners in Justice

by melissfiction



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: FBI agents, FBI is hella defunded in this AU, Fiddleford is an employee counselor, Stanford is a fingerprint analyst, Stanley is an S-ranked criminal, also i wrote this in 2016 and i somehow predicted the exact plot of birdbox, but he also has special agent training, x files au, yes I'm using Naruto ninja rankings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25444165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissfiction/pseuds/melissfiction
Summary: Fiddleford drags Stanford along for his first field mission to recruit a criminal on FBI's Most Wanted list: Hal Forrester.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Partners in Justice

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reading through all my old fanfics right now and I'm so shook that this particular fanfic referenced three things with vastly different contexts in 2020: 
> 
> \- extremely volatile racial tensions with the police  
> \- the Golden Gate Killer (recently caught)  
> \- the exact plot of Birdbox before I even heard of it

Stanford was having a bad dream when Fiddleford knocked on his desk to wake him up. Before he bothered trying to make sense of what little he could remember about his dormant mind’s conjuring, though, he was thinking about how polite Fiddleford was. It wasn’t a gentle shake of the shoulder or an obnoxious yell for him to wake up, but a soft knock, as if he was asking permission for Stanford to be awakened. He thought of how odd he felt when he wanted to describe the gesture as detached when Fiddleford was the most dedicated, kind-hearted person he knew. Perhaps he would have preferred a warm hand pulling him back into consciousness or a firm voice reminding him that he shouldn’t be sleeping at his desk. He thought he knew someone who would’ve made a huge fuss over him taking proper care of himself every once in a while, but actually, he had no one like that in his life. Fiddleford has been his closest companion for a couple of years, but it seems even that has its limit. 

Stanford had a bitter taste in his mouth when Fiddleford knocked on his desk to wake him up. He was a man of science and would have gladly cracked open a psychology textbook to find the origin of that looming cloud of disappointment over him, but today, he was going to trust himself and choose not to delve too deep into his emotions today. He felt alone. Abandoned and hopeless and guilty like he did something bad recently. He felt like there was too much space around him to know what to do with. Like being in a vast ocean with no land or sharks in sight. He didn’t want to explore these feelings, but regardless, they lingered despite how hard he wanted to reject the sinking feeling deep in his chest. He may even say he feels a crushing sensation in his very heart.

He missed Fiddleford’s entire explanation of something. He was barely aware that he was missing out on something, whatever it was, because of his bad dream. 

“—I wasn’t listening,” Stanford blurted out. He regretted his word choice immediately. That didn’t sound like something he would say. It was too blunt and direct. He had manners and waking up from an impromptu nap was no excuse to not use them. 

That annoyed Fiddleford. Stanford could tell by the uncomfortably long beat of silence that communicated all the fleeting frustration Fiddleford felt with Stanford’s sporadic burst of ignorance. At least it was the truth. 

“We’re bein’ sent on a recruitment mission.” 

Stanford waited for more information, but that was all Fiddleford was willing to re-explain. The thick manila folder in Fiddleford’s hands was probably enough to fill him in on the man they’re looking for, Hal Forrester. 

“Us?” Stanford clarified. Fiddleford nodded. “The lab geeks?”

“Actually, I’m an Employee Assistance Counselor now. I told you that last week.” 

Stanford blinked. He knew Fiddleford had his doctorate in psychology, but he would have never suspected that Fiddleford would rather work with people than technology. “You never told me that.”

“Are you feeling alright? Lately, your mind has been as loose as the skin of a snake shedding against a rock.

Stanford didn’t realize that Fiddleford has been annoyed at him for a while. He could feel the passive aggressiveness gleaming in Fiddleford’s glare. Though, it’s not as if listening to people was in his job description. “Okay, the forensics analyst and therapist,” he corrected. “We’re still not supposed to be on the frontline.” 

“We’re not,” Fiddleford agreed, “but the FBI doesn’t want to waste their special agents on recruitment missions due to the shortage of frontline players there are and we haven’t been doing anything lately.” 

Ford hated his job.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hal Forrester was a character, to say the least. He wasn’t some awkward boy genius from Glass Shard Beach. The man they were looking for managed to get himself banned from more states than the average American could identify on a map. He was described as a businessman, a con artist, a criminal mastermind, a petty thief, a sociopath, a master of disguise… But also redeemable. The rest of the file contained advertisements for defective products and a list of fake identities Hal Forrester may have adopted over the years: Andrew “8-Ball” Alcatraz, Stetson Pinefield, Steven Pinington... And the list goes on and on. He didn’t even want to attempt to strain his eyes reading the tiny print listing all the crimes these identities were accused or convicted of. Stanford had no clue why the FBI wanted to recruit someone that belonged on their Most Wanted list. 

He flipped through the papers while Fiddleford drove them to a boardwalk carnival. There was little known about who exactly Hal Forrester was, if that was even his real name--no official documents, no pictures, no specific heists he was in--but the one thing they had to rely on was that Hal loved going to the beach. In every state he went to, the beach was always the first place he stopped by. A little bird told the FBI that he was supposed to be in California today and it was up to Ford-squared to track him down. 

Fiddleford was the one who suggested that they visit the boardwalk carnival they were going to. Everything they did would be paid for by the FBI if it was necessary for the mission, so he figured it was the perfect opportunity to take a paid vacation. “You’ll enjoy it a lot, Stanford. You can find a lot of cheap fun there.” 

“We’re not looking for where I want to go. We’re looking for where Hal would most likely be.” Stanford didn’t want to have more time away from his project than necessary. He wasn’t even sure how they were supposed to identify Hal without any pictures or rough sketches. Apparently, they would know him when they saw him. Stanford didn’t like walking into situations where he had to use something as unreliable as emotions. He might as well have been sent on this mission with a blindfold.

“Who knows? Maybe you and Hal have a lot in common.” 

Stanford, understandably, cringed at that statement. Being compared to a lowlife criminal wasn’t the best compliment. 

Fiddleford rolled down his window and turned up the radio. Country music is always the best driving music, in his opinion. “C’mon, Stanford. I just wanna fill your cup with sweet tea. You’ve been dismal ever since I woke you up. What was your dream about?” 

Stanford shrugged. “I don’t remember.” He was reluctant to reveal anything about his inner turmoils. They were too abstract to deal with. It would be like trying to describe the meaning behind a modern art piece: tedious, difficult, and a waste of time. 

“You must remember some of it,” Fiddleford insisted. “It made you sad.” 

Sad. Stanford thought that was a weird way to describe how he felt. It was too simple, yet so vague. “I was just thinking about how impossible it is for two people to truly connect.” It was a stupid thing to think about for someone who hated social interaction in the first place. 

“Daddy issues?” Fiddleford suggested. 

“No, Sigmund Freud,” Stanford denied. Technically, Fiddleford was sorta on the right track, but this sadness he feels ran deeper than a stern father who was rarely impressed. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He didn’t want to be another one of Fiddleford’s patients. Weren’t they supposed to be friends? They were roommates in college together. Fiddleford was the one who recruited Stanford as a forensic analyst for the FBI. Perhaps Fiddleford is the reason why they’re on the mission at all. He may be the most experienced with reluctant recruits and just decided to bring Stanford along for the ride. 

Fiddleford sighed. “Do you know why I switched to being an EAC?” 

“Okay, Fiddleford, I get it--I’ve been spacing out a lot. I know nothing about you. I don’t even know when your birthday is. Your girlfriend reminds me when it’s near.” Stanford sunk into his chair and he’s surprised that Fiddleford didn’t show any symptom of anger or annoyance. He couldn’t think of a man more suited to deal with angst-ridden FBI employees than the one right next to him. Fiddleford was calm, which only made Stanford look more irrational in comparison. “... So, why?” 

“Oh, I wasn’t going to give you some emotional monologue about how I want to make the world a better place by alleviating people’s suffering. I was just making sure you didn’t know. You were right, Stanford; there are no true connections. It’s better off that way. Ignorance is bliss, right?” 

Stanford was positive that Fiddleford became an EAC because he was sick of working in the same division as him.

* * *

  
  


Stanford closed his eyes and took a deep breath in of the salty ocean aroma. The sun was as hot as it was during the summers in Glass Shard Beach. He wanted to strip his suit away and take a long swim in the ocean. This time, he wouldn’t have to maneuver around broken bottles jutting out of the sand or have a first aid kit handy when he inevitably took the wrong step and bled onto the white sand. It was a clean beach, mostly. Volunteers picked up trash on a designated day of the week and dog owners got fined if they didn’t dispose shit properly. 

The beach was the most beautiful place a person could be, especially in California. He only wished that he had dragged himself out of the lab earlier. This was his first time going to the beach ever since he left New Jersey. There was always an excuse to not take a day off, always a textbook to study, always a class to ace, always a fingerprint to analyze. 

But other than a clean beach and a strong sense of community, the boardwalk carnival was famous for its lack of police in the area. The motto was, “Let people have their fun.” It was the perfect sanctuary for wanted criminals. People of all ages and backgrounds were free to escape reality at the boardwalk 24/7. 

“No badge-flashing to get a shortcut to the front of the rollercoaster line here,” Fiddleford warned. “These people hate authority figures like us. It’s a port city. The immigrant population is huge and the citizens are touchy over issues like racial oppression by the police.” 

“According to his profile, Hal is fluent in Spanish and English and he has no birth certificates or legitimate identification documents. Is he an immigrant? Maybe the beach reminds him of his home country, or something.” 

Fiddleford scanned his surroundings. The games were rigged, the food was fried, and the rides were vomit-inducing. There was nothing out of the ordinary for a boardwalk carnival, other than the apparent lack of surveillance cameras and security. Everyone was having their own fun and keeping to themselves. “I think that’s too big of an assumption to make. It’s not like we know what languages he doesn’t speak. Think--what makes a guy love the beach so much?” 

The waves crashed into the rocks down below. Stanford shrugged. “Good childhood memories?”

“Let’s roll with that. Pretend you’re a child again. Where do you wanna go first?”

“Why me? We have no clue who Hal really is other than a dangerous recruit. Comparing him to me is illogical.” 

“They say that criminal masterminds have extremely high IQs. Great minds think alike.” 

Stanford couldn’t refute any of the logic behind Fiddleford’s theory. He could always count on Fiddleford to acknowledge his brilliant mind. Luckily, Stanford will be using it to fight crime rather than commit them. “Well, first of all…” If it was really up to him, he would go to the ferris wheel to view the entire boardwalk and beach from a bird’s eye view, but if they were talking about where he would go first as a child… “I’d go play some of the rigged games and figure out their trick.” 

They went to the shooting games first to put their FBI training to the test. There was a large stuffed goat Stanford was eyeing and, not to brag or anything, but his shooting accuracy was the best in his division. Stanford slapped a dollar onto the counter for one round. That’s all he would need. 

“Back again to claim a prize for your friend?” the game attendant teased. “Just please don’t tell any more jokes about your abandonment issues.” 

Again? This was his first time at the boardwalk. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, sir.” 

“You can change your clothes all you want, but I never forget a face.”

He brushed it off and kept his eye on the red wooden targets passing by on cute woodland creatures. In the end, he was only able to win a medium-sized goat plushie. “Rigged…” The reason why he was the best shooter in his division may be because lab geeks tend to have no motive to learn to shoot more accurately than the minimum requirement. In reality, Stanford was only above average. Fiddleford was much better, given his childhood of possum-hunting in the deep South. 

“Last time was just a fluke then, huh?”

Stanford didn’t like how wide the attendant’s grin was. It was warm and friendly, like they actually had met before and he was glad to see Stanford again. Stanford and Fiddleford left with an awkward goodbye and Fiddleford whispering in his ear if Stanford actually knew the game attendant. This kind of problem hasn’t occurred ever since…

“Let’s find a fortune teller,” Stanford suggested. “The most intelligence is bound to be there.” 

“Isn’t your mother a psychic?” Fiddleford recalled. 

Stanford hugged the goat plushie to himself. “I never told you that.” It wasn’t supposed to be a walk down memory lane. He just knew he could rely on the so-called foresight of an observational woman that craved money. 

“Remember when she visited our dorm? She charged me twenty dollars to tell me I should move to California after college.” 

Stanford’s first response was to roll his eyes at his mother’s predictable behavior, but after deeper contemplation, he realized that perhaps his mother did shape their destiny quite a bit. Fiddleford was scouted by the FBI for his amazing work in computer technology when he arrived in California, which gave him the confidence to court his high school love, then later led to him recruiting Stanford for an open position in the forensics lab, which in turn gave him a greater salary which he donated a portion of every month to… his mother. “I prefer to describe her as an introspective, self-employed woman who knows what she wants.” Their mother’s vague connection to their employment was all but a coincidence. Being geniuses, they would be successful anywhere they went. 

So they played more carnival games before they arrived at the fortune teller. 

A small gray tent, tattered by the weather’s abuse, was the place they were looking for. It looked far more authentic than the bright neon eye on the second story window of Pines Pawns. It was dark on the inside, to set the ominous atmosphere of the establishment, with a few candles littered around to light the way towards a middle-aged woman sitting at a table with a black velvet tablecloth and crystal ball. Several black curtains blocked what little natural sunlight could have leaked in through the holes of the tent. 

Stanford was relieved that this woman was a crystal ball-type rather than a palm reader. Palm reading was just like zodiac horoscopes; it relied on vague generalities that could apply to anyone. Fortune tellers had the harder job of using what little hints they could catch on a person’s figure to know what the person wants to hear. Luckily for Clara T., Stanford wasn’t looking for comfort. He was looking for Hal. 

Clara T. didn’t so much as spare a glance at the two FBI workers. She carelessly filed her nails while they took a seat at her table. “You’re looking for someone,” she told Stanford. “I can see it in your face.” 

Something was special about Stanford’s face today. At any rate, he was impressed. Ma Pines could learn a thing or two from Clara T. “As a matter of fact, I am. Did you happen to—” 

“—Someone close to you,” she interrupted. She smirked. The curtains behind her rustled. 

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at Stanford. The forensics expert was speechless. All the signs were pointing him in a direction he didn’t want to go.

“How close, exactly?” Fiddleford asked. He was suspicious of what was hiding behind the curtains. It seemed as if someone was tip-toeing their way out. 

“Very,” Clara deadpanned. She shot a glance over her shoulder, but otherwise remained fixed on her nails. “If you want to make peace with him, you need to reflect on yourself.” The rustling suddenly stopped. “Quickly. Or else you’ll miss your chance.” 

A lightbulb flashed over Stanford’s head. “The Hall of Mirrors! Of course! That’s the perfect place for a criminal with no real identity to hide!” He slapped a ten onto the table before taking Fiddleford’s hand and running towards the new attraction. It wasn’t far from the fortune teller’s tent. 

Fiddleford couldn’t shake off that there was more to Clara T.’s words than his friend was willing to interpret. “Stanford, I don’t think you’re supposed to take her advice literally…” 

“How else am I supposed to take it? Up my ass?” 

Fiddleford snorted. “Figuratively.” 

“Are you trying to say Hal is someone I can emotionally bond with?” 

“I don’t think this is about Hal.” 

Regardless, they dived into the maze of mirrors head-first. The attraction was eerily empty at this point of the day, since the boardwalk had barely opened. They marvelled at their distorted images for a while, fascinated by how the unique placing of the mirrors created an effect that made it difficult to find the right way out. 

“This certainly is quite a place to hide in,” Stanford commented. He kept his voice low. Every footstep they made echoed and it was best not to give their locations away. “Right, Fiddleford?”

He turned around, only to find himself staring back. His curiosity was quickly replaced by a frown. “Oh, I see. You decided to leave me alone to ‘reflect on myself’ because the only person I care about is myself, huh?” 

All around him were images of himself—small, thin, tall, wobbly, but nonetheless, all versions of himself. He approached a mirror that wasn’t shaped oddly in any way possible. 

“Well, the joke’s on you, Fiddleford! There’s nobody I care about!” 

His voice resonated throughout the maze, reverberating off every nearby surface before bouncing back into his ears. 

“Nobody! Not even my own mirror ima—”

Stanford gasped. He wasn’t seeing himself, anymore. A man with a familiar face and red jacket was all around him in an instant, sporting a frightened look of being caught in the headlights. It was gone just as quick when the mirror in front of Stanford cracked, splitting the image with a jagged line down the middle before the strange man took off running. 

Stanford took out his gun from his trenchcoat and shot a bullet through the mirror so he could step past the glass wall in front of him to pursue the man. What was life without a few shortcuts? He listened carefully before making any movements. Left. The man was running left. 

The maze was a challenge severely underestimated. Stanford had to keep his eyes peeled or else he would run right into another mirror. He could phone Fiddleford for backup, but if he was right about the Hall of Mirrors, he would probably also be more successful working alone on this. Hal Forrester was a lot closer than Stanford anticipated, after all. 

All he had to go off of was his hearing and occasional flashes of red in a mirror. Occasionally, he would make the wrong turn and have to backtrack, only to slam right into a mirror. Those things were awfully slam-resistant. Eventually, he paused the chase and took time to recollect himself. A bad temper would only cloud his judgement. “Argh! I have 12 PhDs! I can’t be outsmarted by this knucklehead.” He analyzed his surroundings meticulously, soaking in any detail that could be used to his advantage. He was clueless about where he was in the maze, yet the criminal he was after seemed to be navigating his way around flawlessly. “... It’s a carnival attraction. There must be some trick…” He only had four bullets left, which would be better off saved for later, and trying to smash his way through the maze would only slow him down and get him in trouble for vandalism. 

Stanford stared at his own reflection while he talked to himself. “Think, Stanford. This must be a game to that knucklehead. How would he cheat?” Stanford would kill for a map like the mazes on the back of those sugary cereal boxes. Then, his eyes widened with realization. “That’s it!” He climbed up a mirror and balanced himself on it. As he suspected, he could see the entire maze from his point of view. Like a scientist studying a rat for intelligence, he watched his target maneuver through the labyrinth of mirrors with ease. He took out a notepad and pen and sketched a rough path towards the same exit his target was heading towards before he took off. 

Down straight, past the second super wobbly mirror, right, left, left, right, straight up, diagonal… He barely saw his target rush out of the exit, but he was as quick to follow as a forensics expert could. Maybe he should get out of the lab more. 

He followed the red jacket into a sea of people. No better place to hide a tree than a forest. The shops, especially, had the most obstacles. Stanford finally thought he caught his prey as soon as he spotted the red jacket just inches in front of him, but it was only a decoy. It was the same jacket, all right, but on a mannequin. Clever. 

Stanford angrily kicked the mannequin over. “I can’t believe I fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book!” He wasn’t sure how old that trick was, but it had to be up there. He wasn’t even supposed to be sent on types of missions. Sure, he passed the standard FBI fitness test, but he had neither the training nor patience required for a field agent. He wasn’t unqualified, per say, but rather, unfamiliar with these situations. He could catch the knucklehead alone, of course, but why should he have to expend so much effort when he had a partner? 

He called Fiddleford. Not because he needed assistance. Fiddleford was just a useful resource to Stanford. Fiddleford did happen to have special agent training, out of his own interest in the field. 

Fiddleford explained himself as soon as he picked up. “I got hungry. I saw you pass by, actually. What’s with the change of clothes?” 

“That’s not me. I’m at the shops. Stop him!” 

“On it. I just saw him near the seafood restaurant. It’s next to the ferris wheel.” 

Stanford ran towards that general direction. It didn’t take long for him to find the slippery eel he was after. The man ran away, only to find Fiddleford and his gun. With both his exit routes covered, he panicked and ran into the line for the ferris wheel. Stanford and Fiddleford were right on his tail. They ended up with a gondola for three. 

Fiddleford kept his gun focused on their now-trapped prey. The man had his back to the two FBI workers. Fiddleford could only see the man’s face from the reflection in the mirror. He squinted, wondering if it was time for a new prescription. It wasn’t normal to be seeing double. “...Who are you?” 

Stanford clenched his fists. “The criminal we’ve been sent to recruit… my brother.” 

Fiddleford lowered his gun. “You have an evil twin brother?” He couldn’t believe he had just fallen victim to one of the oldest plot twists in the book. Certainly, the evil twin brother card was a classic. 

Stanley finally turned around. “I’m the evil twin? Aren’t you the mad scientist that wants to turn his own flesh and blood over to the government for research money?” 

Stanford rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. I’m not the one with the criminal record, Stanley. Besides, this doesn’t even count as overtime for me.”

Stanley fell to his knees and pushed his head into Fiddleford’s gun. “End me now. It was either facing my brother, the government, or my fear of heights. Now I’m stuck with all three until you blow my brains out!” 

Fiddleford put his gun away. “I reckon we can still get off before we start—” 

He was interrupted by a rattle that almost knocked him down. Ah, irony—the cruelest of blades. Stanley watched in horror as they slowly began to rise. 

“So are you going to kill me or what?” Stanley demanded irritably. “Arrest me? Interrogate? You'll get all the answers you want for a certain price.”

Fiddeford laid a hand on Stanley’s shoulder. “Actually, we’re on your side. My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Stanford and I are both FBI employees, and we’d like you to join us as a special age—mmph!”

Stanford had slapped a hand over Fiddleford’s mouth and dragged him to the farthest corner there was on the cramped gondola. “You're saying I have to work with him?” Stanford hissed. 

Fiddleford spoke at a normal volume, given that there was no point in hiding this exchange when Stanley could hear everything anyway. “You’ll be in completely different divisions.”

Stanford wanted to jump off the gondola. He worked his ass off in college, taking the maximum amount of advanced classes he could and sacrificing all of his free time so he could graduate early and later get 12 PhDs. He thought it was only a given that a top secret government organization wanted his talents. Then Stanley goes around, breaking laws and scamming people and committing who-knows-what, and he gets into the FBI just as easily? With the same benefits? Same salary, if not better because Stanley was going to be a special agent? “That’s not the point. I haven’t seen him in years, and  _ this  _ is our first reunion.” 

Fiddleford couldn’t stop glancing between Stanley and Stanford. The resemblance was uncanny. “Some call it fate.” 

“I prefer the phrase ‘government exploitation of its employees for nefarious plots.’” It’s highly unlikely it was only a coincidence that the FBI sent a forensics geek on a mission to recruit his own twin brother. 

“Complain later. I have a fresh new job to keep.” With that, the brief discussion was over. Fiddleford cleared his throat and faced Stanley again, ignoring the death glare on Stanford. “Like I was saying, we’re FBI employees and we’d like to recruit you as a special agent.” 

Stanley’s hands were white from the vice-grip he had on the railings in the metal box he was trapped in. He tried his best to focus on the burning hatred concentrated on him instead of the lack of beautiful, lovely earth below him. Good thing he had been starving for two days because he would have vomited by now. “A-And… w-what if I don’t?” He hoped the “or else” would involve a bullet to his brain. He thought it would be easier to face his fear of heights than confront the government or his estranged twin, but now that he was stuck with all three, death was the best solution. 

Fiddleford already liked Stanley a lot more than his brother. Nothing brightens his day like seeing a genius fugitive vulnerable and shaking with suicide in his eyes. Cornered. Stanley sure seemed “redeemable” to him. 

To answer Stan’s question, he jumped. The force of the simple action shook the gondola slightly and let out a satisfying thunk against the metal floor. Stanley looked ready to faint. 

“ _ Okay, okay! I’ll join! _ ” 

Mission: Success.

* * *

Stanford didn’t have to watch Stanley’s interrogation from behind the two-way mirror. He felt compelled to because, god, that was the person he shared the womb with in that room. He hadn’t seen Stanley in years and yes, he was damn curious what his brother has been up to since their parting. Petty thief, he understood, but  _ criminal mastermind _ sounded like too big of a stretch for the guy who used to copy off his work in high school and  _ still  _ managed to barely pass with a C. 

It wasn’t a formal interrogation, despite the setting. The surveillance cameras weren’t on, there was nothing recording their conversation, and they were eating pepperoni pizza with ice-cold Pitt Cola. Stanford shouldn’t have been surprised. Stanley wasn’t detained as a criminal, he was recruited as a special agent. By law, Stanley was allowed to leave whenever he wanted to and couldn’t be restrained. Nothing said could be admissible in court. Fiddleford did have a notepad and pen on the table, but that could very well be for show. 

“I’m guessing you’re playing good cop right now,” Stanley noted. 

Fiddleford checked the clock on the wall. He had to spend at least an hour with his “interrogation” to make the director think he was actually doing work. “I just need to confirm some information before you’re officially hired. Your documents are a bit of a mess. Is that alright with you?” 

Stanley shrugged. He had no animosity towards Fiddleford, yet, plus the guy bought him food. As he believed, the way to a man’s heart was bribery. 

“So… How old are you?” Fiddleford started. 

Stanford sighed. He had a feeling Fiddleford knew he was watching. Fiddleford  _ knew  _ that Stan and Ford were twins and he obviously  _ knew  _ that they were both 23. 

“Same as Sixer.” 

Stanford’s face burned. He forgot about the list of nicknames Stanley had for him, with “Sixer” being at the top of the list. Suddenly, Fiddleford decided it would be wise to take notes. At least Stanford could confirm that the man under interrogation was indeed his brother and not Hal Forrester wearing an elaborate disguise or an alien imposter. “Stanford, you mean? Have you always called him that?” 

“Yeah… So, uh…” Stanley stared at the mirror, into his reflection. He wasn’t aware that Stanford was behind it. “How’s Poindexter doing? He must be something nerdy like a  _ forensics lab analyst _ . He loves torturing himself like that.” 

Stanford didn’t miss how quick Stanley was to divert the attention away from himself. He didn’t want to think about how well Stanley knew him, even after all these years. 

“He is, actually,” Fiddleford confirmed. “But what do you mean?” 

Stanley held up his hands, emphasizing each of his fingers with a wiggle. “He does  _ fingerprints _ , right?” 

Whatever Fiddleford was writing down, Stanford didn’t like it. “Why do you think your brother chose to specialize in fingerprint analysis? There’s a number of other specialties, like handwriting analysis or blood splatter analysis.” 

“It’s two of his biggest insecurities—fingers and identity.” 

Stanford recalled there were still tests he had to run in the lab. He didn’t witness the rest of the interrogation. 

* * *

The next morning, there was a newspaper on the break room table. The front page headline, in all caps, was hard  _ not  _ to look at. STAN PINES DEAD. Stanford didn't usually find interest in non-science-related news, but that morning, he did. 

It wasn't a story he was unfamiliar with: car accident, burst into flames, suspicions of recent suicidal thoughts. He felt distant from the article, even though the name was so similar to his own. It was the language used that bothered him. Stan Pines, the criminal, was finally ridden from the world. It was more like a declaration of relief than an obituary or accident report. Nowhere in the story did it every mention that Stan Pines was a brother or a friend or dearly beloved. 

Though, Stanford had to admit that the news didn't hit him hard as he wished it did. He always thought when the time came—and he thought it was going to come much later—it would be more dramatic. He imagined himself falling to his knees, waterworks on full blast, sobbing into the newspaper article, maybe crying out Stanley’s name a little. Maybe he  _ did  _ want to care about something. 

But the world ends with a whisper, not a bang. Stanford snatched his bagel from the toaster, filled his mug with coffee, and returned to his lab for more research. His surroundings looked a little grayer, but that was the normal bleakness he saw in the world. Life goes on. 

He kept thinking about the article on purpose, wondering if he could conjure tears if he pulled the right heartstring. When they were kids, Stanley would've told him to get out of his head and live, whatever that meant.  _ Stanford  _ was the one currently alive, though, so it was best to disregard any advice from dead people about living. 

He would've been sad if Stanley had died when they were younger. So, what, all it takes to be okay with the death of a family member is distance? Time? Would he care if Fiddleford died? And god, there were still funeral expenses he had to deal with. Stanley would probably like his body cremated. Stanford wasn't comfortable with having the body donated to science, as noble of a purpose it was, but he didn't necessarily want to clear his schedule to arrange the funeral. He wasn't even going to bother with contacting their parents.  _ He _ had to find the news on his own, with no messenger or “I regret to inform you…” God, he would've never known if the newspaper wasn't on the break room table, and he was Stanley’s twin brother. He had just seen Stanley yesterday and he had the chance to tell him whatever he had left to tell his idiot brother. 

There was nothing, now. No brother, no anger, no remorse, no regrets. Death was a passive force and maybe Stanford could have lived the rest of his life in peace without having ever seen his twin brother again after their falling out. 

He fell asleep on his desk on purpose this time. Nothing was more comforting than hours of unconsciousness, nowadays. 

* * *

A big, warm hand rested on Stanford’s shoulder. “Hey, Sixer,” a voice whispered. The hand didn't shake him or knock on the desk. Its presence was a statement all in its own. It was the comfort of the physical touch that woke him up, though. “Sleeping like that is bad for your neck, genius.”

Stanford shot up, alarmed. “ _ Stanley? _ ” He immediately bit his tongue to make sure he wasn't actually caught in a dream. He wasn't. Ever the skeptic, he didn’t believe in miracles. He did believe in ghosts, though. “Stanley, you're dead,” he stated, as if Stanley was the one who needed the reminder. Stanley’s grin was too wide to belong to someone who died in a fiery car crash. Stanford was glad he hadn’t wasted any money on funeral arrangements yet, because from the looks of it, he’d rather have his brother’s body in a plastic trash bag in the dumpster right now.  _ Dear god, how can a guy like this be working for the government? _

“Actually,  _ Stan Pines  _ is dead. Your brother is still alive.” 

It immediately sank in that Stanley faked the death of just another fake identity of his. Ford couldn’t decide if Stanley legitimately thought this was good news because Stanley seemed pretty damn proud of himself. This prank was shittier than when Fiddleford hid his pens for a week, forcing Ford to use a pencil, because Fiddleford was losing sleep over the constant clicking during the night. That was when Stanford discovered a new habit of biting pencils. Thank god they use graphite instead of actual lead in pencils. 

“Of course Shermie is still alive,” Stanford retorted. 

Stanley chuckled awkwardly. “Haha, I really, uh… missed your sense of humor.” 

At least one of them was amused. “Stanley, I want to make something clear…” 

Stan groaned. He put his hands on his hips and started a ridiculously exaggerated imitation of Stanford. He pushed up imaginary glasses. “ _ I don’t know what you’ve been up to these last few years, but understand this: I do not want you associating with me  _ or  _ my daughter! Only one of us can fuck up our lives at a time, and  _ my  _ shit needs to be together for my girl. Capisce? _ ” 

… Well, to be fair, Stanley hit all the heads of the nails except for that oddly specific bit about the daughter. Stanford wasn’t going to prod further. “I’d also like to add that I don’t want you embarrassing our family name.” 

“ _ Embarrassing  _ it?” Stan scoffed. He slammed a fist down onto Ford’s desk. “I’m  _ living up  _ to it! What the hell do you know about our family name, Mr. Government Slave? I thought a genius like you would’ve dug deeper into our archives!” 

Stanford stood up from his desk. “I know enough, Stanley. I was  _ there  _ when you were disowned!” 

He didn’t realize his fists were clenched and ready to block a punch until he was caught off guard when Stanley was struck silent. He wasn’t even aware of how loud their argument was until Stanley’s mute look of disgust was there to contrast it. He felt ridiculous, yelling in his own lab, but it’s not like Stanley should be the one lecturing  _ him _ about what he didn’t know. He was the one that went to college. He was the one who pursued the enlightening path of science. He was the one whose parents still phoned him every once in a while. Yet, it was Stanley whose long sigh dispelled all the accumulated tension in the room and it was also Stanley who had a good enough temperament to smirk amidst this chaos. 

“Geez, Ford. You haven’t changed a bit.” 

The comment was nostalgic, sentimental at best, but Stanford could only register it as a jab. He couldn’t find the right comeback. He was so stuck in his head. It shouldn’t have been Stanley who moved on first. It shouldn’t have been Stanley who got the last word in. And, god, it made Ford’s skin crawl thinking that Stanley could be right about this and Stanford was the one in the dark, for a change. He relaxed his fists involuntarily, involuntarily because he wished there was something tangible he could fight against, something he could identify. Stanford hated him. He hated that Stanley could leave such a deep impression on him without leaving a print. 

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Stan transitioned loudly, forcibly changing the subject, “I thought you should know that I’m kinda stuck in this base for a while. I gotta prove my loyalty, or something. I already passed all the tests, in case you’re curious.” He cleared a spot on the desk for him to sit on. “But, you see, the FBI is still extremely understaffed, and I’m not allowed to go on any missions by myself just yet, so…” 

Stanford hated his job. He hated it and he loathed it and he despised it and damn all the amazing benefits it gets him. 

* * *

Fiddleford was adamant about being the driver, despite Stanley’s insistence. Apparently, there was a special agent driving test that Stanley passed on the first try. He shut up as soon as Fiddleford ‘casually’ mentioned that there would be a lot of elevated highways on the way. Stanford, sticking to his role as the navigator lest Fiddleford resort to the stars as a guide, kept it a secret that the elevated highways actually added an entire half an hour to their travel time. 

Their destination was San Francisco, famous for the notoriously deadly Golden Gate Bridge, where the second-highest number of suicides were committed every year. The suicide magnet was attracting more deaths than usual and rumor has it that a Golden Gate Killer was responsible for it. It was a lame name, but Stanford was more excited about investigating the ghost sightings. Never mind that the San Francisco Bay attracted its own fair share of suicides before the bridge was built; phantom ships wandered in the mist. It was the perfect place to test out his Ouija board and spiritual communication skills. He had black candles and a plastic bag of goat’s blood that would otherwise go to waste. Stanford kept himself busy thinking about what secrets he could unveil soon while they speeded along what felt like the longest elevated highway in the world. 

Stanley laid across the backseat of the car, too unsettled to take a nap. “Fidds, what the hell are we going to do when it turns out that the only killer is clinical depression?” 

“It probably is. This is just a test mission to torture us, Stanley. I get to apply my counseling skills, you get a taste of what a mission is like, and Stanford is here as the token loyalist to make sure we actually do our jobs.” 

Stanford buried himself further into his comically huge map. “The director wouldn’t do that. We’re too short on employees at our base to waste our talents on a wild goose chase.” 

Fiddleford glanced at Stanley knowingly through the rear view mirror. They had built a mutual respect for one another, given that cooperation was the easiest since Fiddleford had to supervise Stanley for at least a month. Stanley snickered. Stanford was unintentionally proving Fiddleford’s theory. 

The clouds got thicker the further north they went. Fiddleford rested his foot lightly on the accelerator the entire way while country music softly played from the radio. Stanley eventually took to humming along the twangy Southern tunes. 

They were only half an hour away from the hotel they were going to stay at when the radio started spewing static and randomly changing stations, so Fiddleford turned it off. He kept his eyes locked on the road despite Stanford and Stanley’s sudden interest in the sky. While the navigator was distracted, he strayed from their intended path towards a gas station for a quick pit stop. Luckily, there wasn’t much traffic at the moment. In fact, all the cars seemed to clear away from the area. 

“ _ STOP THE CAR! _ ” the brothers yelled simultaneously. 

“Turkey feathers…” Fiddleford cursed. He was hoping they’d be able to pull over closer to a bathroom. He pulled off to the right before the twins scrambled out of the car. 

Above, a flying metal ship swerved about in the sky, haphazardously manned by someone (something?) that didn't have proper control over the vehicle. It seemed to be heading towards them until the image of it rippled and disappeared behind a cloud. There was a brief green glow that accompanied the vanishing point. 

Stanford was already finishing up a rough sketch of what he observed in the sky seconds after its departure. “Of course!” he exclaimed ecstatically. “It only makes sense!”

Fiddleford begrudgingly freed himself from his seatbelt and got out of the car for a stretch. “Yeah.  _ Aliens  _ are the reason why people are jumping the bridge,” he stated dryly. “Case closed.”

Stanley’s eyes darted around their surroundings. No cars. No birds. No pedestrians ambling about. Even the wind had quieted down to leave them alone. He wished the UFO was around when they were stuck in traffic so slow he swore they were moving backwards. “Actually—”

Stanford scribbled down quick bullet points in his notepad. “Correlation is not causation, Fiddleford. That would be a fallacy. However, I have a theory that our visitor may be transmitting some kind of interference waves that disrupt the signals in human brains…”

“And what do  _ you  _ know about the human brain?” Fiddleford challenged. 

Stanford waved him away. “It's just chemicals. I can figure it out.” 

Fiddleford stomped back into the car without another word. Stanley took that as a sign that it was his turn to ride shotgun. Fiddleford snapped his seatbelt back on, released the emergency brake, and had his hand on the gear shift as soon as Stan closed his door. Stan’s quick reflexes had him slam a hand over Fiddleford’s before he switched the car from park to drive. 

“Hey, hey, Ford’s still outside!” Stan reminded him. 

Fiddleford squeezed the head of the stick tightly. “He can figure it out.” 

Stanley glanced behind at his brother, who was too deep into his own thoughts to be bothered about “trivial” worries like his own friend’s feelings. He suddenly became self-conscious of his hand over Fiddleford’s and immediately pulled it away. “What, you don’t believe in aliens?” 

“Christ, no, of course they’re as real as taxes,” Fiddleford replied as if it was the most obvious fact in the world next to the Earth being round. “ _ Stanford _ is the problem. He thinks he knows everything and doesn’t bother consulting a real expert. I’ve been researching brainwaves for a while now, and I’m on the brink of learning how to manipulate them for a specific purpose. But it’s not like  _ Stanford  _ would know. Golly gee, he’s the easiest to keep secrets from. He didn’t even bother to ask my last name for the first few months we knew each other.” 

Stanley was a bit concerned by the fact that Fiddleford had no trouble confessing this piece of information to him. His first instinct was to report this to the FBI (for a hefty reward), but they kinda  _ were _ the FBI. Yeesh, smart people drama was weird. Yet, the ludicrosity of Fiddleford’s distress was oddly attractive. “So you really think that aliens are making people commit suicide?” 

Fiddleford shrugged. He wasn’t going to rule it out. “There’s not enough evidence to say that. What do  _ you  _ think? You seemed just as excited about the UFO as your brother.” 

Stanley stared up at the sky. “Aliens wouldn’t bother with our miserable planet. I’m more afraid of the mad scientists lurking about like a normal civilian, hiding like a tree in a forest.” He laughed at his own joke to conceal the real fear bubbling in his guts. 

* * *

Stanley believed that he must have done something right, because while they were checking out their hotel rooms, Fiddleford made a point to ask for a room on the lowest floor. For FBI agents like them, it was more convenient to have the fastest escape route possible, but Stanley liked thinking that he got on Fiddleford’s good side. The only rooms available on the second floor had one bed, though, and as Stanley’s supervisor (criminal-sitter), Fiddleford had to share a room with him. They could’ve easily settled for a room with two beds on the third floor, but it seemed that Fiddleford was content with the single bed and Stanley didn’t have time to drop in his own two cents before they got the room keys. 

Fiddleford collapsed onto the queen-sized bed the second they arrived at their room. At least they weren’t going to argue about who would sleep on the floor. The room wasn’t anything too lavish. Stanley has seen better, but it was still a palace compared to the worst of what he used to stay in before. His usual first course of action would be to check for any hidden bodies, especially under the bed, but since there weren’t any funny smells floating around, he let it slide. He sat on the edge of the bed. “Shouldn’t we be out patrolling, or something?” 

“That’s what the police are for. We can investigate whenever we’d like, as long as we have our report by the deadline.” 

Huh. Stanley could get used to this life. 

He was so baffled by the turn in events that he accidentally ended up watching Fiddleford while he slept. He plucked Fiddleford’s glasses off his face and set them on the nightstand before searching for the remote, which was conveniently on the nightstand. Stan settled on the farthest edge away from Fiddleford and flicked on the television. Volume muted, subtitles on. None of the news channels mentioned anything about the death of a grifter. The lack of news was good news, though; the less famous he was, the easier it was to swindle. There wasn’t anything about the UFO, either. It was all about the supposed Golden Gate Killer. 

Stanley tried to retain as much information as he could so he could piece together the case like one of those young, handsome detectives that solved riddles on a daily basis. He was on the other side of the prosecution, now. It was his role to play. Then, he got tired of reading, so he just watched the moving picture and kept smelling the air for any funny scents. The air was neutral, aloof to any murders that could have happened and aloof to the fruity, stinging chemicals used to keep the place prim and proper. He was pleasantly warm, in the way where enough body heat has accumulated from just laying there that it would be a nuisance to get up. 

The jumpers had symptoms. Like, shit, who knew mental illnesses were ridden with obvious manifestations of the chemicals imbalances? There was the usual list (hallucinations, bad sleep schedule, hopelessness), but then there were some new ones. The bridge itself seemed to be emanating some force that made people giddy on the bridge, attracted them towards the edge, and ignited euphoria in their souls when they stood on the precipice. The reporter’s hands were shaking while she explained. Stan wished he was optimistic enough to smile  _ that _ wide at a job that required you to stand in the same area where people have ended their lives. He bet that guy loved rollercoasters, too, since he loved heights so much. Maybe he was a thrillseeker with the way he stood on the railings to simulate the same chilling scenario that those jumpers—

The cameraman dropped the camera. There were suddenly technical difficulties.  _ Did he just— _

Stanley didn’t want to think about it. He picked up the remote and watched the image close in on itself until it was just a white line in the middle, then a tiny dot, then complete darkness. That was enough research for today. 

He noticed a buzzing noise from Fiddleford’s pocket. Must be Ford calling. Stanley didn’t hesitate to pickpocket Fiddleford for the phone to answer the call. 

“Remember when I pursued my PhD in philosophy and I had to write that essay on Lovecraftian horror that was published in  _ The Wonderer’s Journal? _ ” There was no “hello” or “how are you?” 

Typical Ford. He didn’t even wait for an answer. 

“That’s what we’re dealing with.” 


End file.
